


Monster

by Apuzzlingprince



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood Magic, M/M, Mind Control, Unhealthy Mindset
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-25 12:58:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14977634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: Anders had more reasons than just the loss of his cat to dislike the Grey Wardens. They had, for example, persuaded him to become a blood mage.Based on Anders being able to be taught Blood Magic by the Warden in Awakening. He accidentally uses mind control on Fenris and doesn't exactly hurry to rectify his mistake.





	Monster

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, Anders' feelings toward Fenris are not my own! It's just a mindset I wanted to explore.

Anders had more reasons than just the loss of his cat to dislike the Grey Wardens. They had, for example, persuaded him to become a blood mage. He had fought against the idea resolutely in the beginning; he’d no desire to become a maleficar, if only for self-preservation reasons (his apathy wouldn’t turn to disgust until he started advocating for mage rights and realised how often blood magic worked against them), but the warden had made some compelling arguments about ‘blood magic being just another branch of magic’ and ‘needing the skills’ and he had succumbed to the pressure. He still wasn’t happy about it and he did everything possible to banish his training from mind, but he did find having blood magic in his arsenal had the occasional benefit.

It was usually by accident that he used blood magic. In times of duress, it came out regardless of what he wanted. The only reason he hadn’t been evicted from his place in the sewers was in fact _because_ of his blood magic starting of its own volition.

(He suspected acquiring Justice had exacerbated his abilities, but he preferred not to think about that.)

Occasionally a templar that was smarter than the average would come by to harass his patients, as they were wont to do, and Anders would – quite understandably – find himself very stressed, and he would think to himself, go away, go away, _go away_ , and there was enough blood in his clinic at all times that they generally would. That was all it took to evict them from the premises. He was fortunate that the templars were slack when it came to the slums; they didn’t particularly like descending into the filth of Darktown and rarely lingered long, so it made it easy to impress on them an urgency to leave. They rarely returned. Only one ever had, and they hadn’t managed to step foot into the clinic before the traces of Ander’s magic had compelled them to turn around.

The first time it happened, he hadn’t even realised he’d used blood magic until he had looked at his palms and found bloody crevices torn into his flesh by his nails. The realisation hadn’t been a pleasant one. He’d been miserable for days, ashamed of his weakness, but the magic had its intended effect and the nosy templar hadn’t returned. It was only after the third time that it happened that he had thought perhaps it wasn’t so bad. Using blood magic to harm was one thing; using it to protect, to simply will away people who wished to hurt his patients, was quite another. Perhaps _that_ could be forgiven.

It had never crossed his mind that it would initiate against anyone except an enemy, which made it startling when, while dressing Fenris’ wounds and bickering with the man over mage rights, he told Fenris to _shut up_ , to _stop talking that way about us_ , and he _did_. He fell silent and still, like a doll under Anders’ hands. Anders didn’t understand, at first, and then he remembered the wounds he had received from their fight against an errant mage, still seeping under his clothes, and realised what he must have done.

“Fenris?”

The man looked up at him from the cot, his eyes dull and half-lidded. The expression was not an especially pleasant one, and yet Anders couldn’t bring himself to look away. An ugly part of him took pleasure in seeing something other than derision on the elf’s pretty face. He so tired of the unfriendly looks the elf would cast him during conversation, so tired of the disdain and apathy he displayed for all Anders cared about. It might have been easier had he not found Fenris so attractive, but he had never taken rejection well from those who piqued his interest. The elf was far too pretty to hold such vile opinions.

He couldn’t help himself: he reached out and touched Fenris’ face, sliding his thumb over Fenris’ narrow jaw and stroking his thrumming pulse point with the flat of his fingers. It wasn’t going as fast as he would have liked it to be. What would it take to get it racing, he wondered?

He licked his lips and cast a quick, guilty glance around the room before sliding his hand up into Fenris’ lovely white hair, revelling in the sensation of the silky strands cascading over his fingers. The elf leaned into his touch, and he had to draw back to prevent himself from getting too excited. He had fantasised about exactly this numerous times over the years, but he had never thought he would ever get to enact his desires.

“Fenris,” he said again, his voice quiet and breathy. “Remove your armour.”

Fenris was quick to comply, his nimble fingers working off his gauntlets before moving onto his breastplate. It occurred to Anders that he had never before seen Fenris without his armour on. The man was insistent on wearing it even in the comfort of his own home, or the homes of Hawke or himself. He was always on edge, always ready for a battle, always glancing over his shoulder and twitching toward his sword. Anders might have felt sympathy for him, being acquainted with that kind of fear himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to forgive Fenris for his transgressions. One bad experience was no excuse to treat mages as badly as he did. He’d been in Kirkwall for almost seven years – surely in that length of time he should have come to terms with his experiences.

Keeping Fenris’ cruelty in mind made it easier to watch as he divested himself of his armour, stripping down to a loose black shirt and trousers. He looked smaller without the armour to add bulk.

“The shirt,” he choked out with difficulty, his face warming as Fenris hurried to comply. “That’s it… good…”

He inhaled sharply as the shirt was drawn over Fenris’ head, unveiling a slim torso covered in lyrium markings. He was _beautiful_. Anders couldn’t resist leaping forward, reaching out to crush one dark nipple under a thumb, relishing in the way it hardened under his touch. He roved his other hand over Fenris’ chest and down his navel, pressing his knuckles into a sensitive crevice just to watch Fenris twitch and squirm. The blood magic wasn't preventing Fenris from displaying normal bodily reactions. He was pleased.

There were terrible things flittering through his mind – that Fenris deserved to be debased, that he deserved to be taught a lesson – but at the forefront of it all, he was simply mindlessly aroused. Elves always seemed so soft, so delicate, so beautiful, and when it came down to it, even a beast like Fenris had those qualities. He could see, now, how Hawke had fallen for the man, though he still considered their coupling a grievous mistake.

He slid his palms up Fenris’ sides and watched his eyelids flutter and his body quiver. He was so sensitive. The lyrium markings, perhaps? Anders had to wonder how far they had descended, but he wouldn’t indulge in that curiosity just yet. He wanted to take his time. This was a rare opportunity and one he was unlikely to experience again.

He touched Fenris’ hips, his stomach, his neck, and then drew Fenris closer by curling his arms around Fenris’ shoulders and sliding his hands into Fenris’ hair. He touched their lips together, chastely, softly, and let his breath roll over Fenris’ chin and mouth until moisture started to gather. He smelt nice, like leather and metal and spices. He must have eaten at Hawke’s house prior to their battle. Hawke was always preparing nice meals for him. The thought angered him, but he soothed his upset by dropping his hands to Fenris’ thighs and marvelling at how soft they were. With all that armour, Anders had always assumed Fenris to be hard all over. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

He managed to pull a strangled gasp from Fenris simply by pressing a kiss to one of his ears. When he lathed a tongue over it, nipping at the rounded tip, Fenris shuddered and hunched over, his head hanging between his shoulders as though he were embarrassed. He was sweet like this. It was a shame he would go back to being a bastard the moment Anders freed him from the blood magic. If he were more like this all the time, sweet and pliant and most important of all, _quiet_ , Anders might have started to consider him a friend.

“Now,” he murmured, dropping his gaze to Fenris’ lap, anticipation gathering in his chest and twinging at his nerves. He didn’t know how far he was willing to go, but he was about to find out. “Remove your-“

Footsteps pounded up to the entrance of his clinic. Anders had closed the door specifically to provide Fenris with some privacy, but Hawke didn’t seem concerned by that in the least. He came bursting in and stood within the threshold, breathing hard.

“Anders, is Fenris alright? It's been twenty minutes already and we're supposed to…” He froze upon seeing Fenris, who was clutching his head and grappling for consciousness. Hawke had managed to startle Anders into dropping the spell. “Oh hell. Did he faint?”

“Yes,” said Anders quickly, but he could see cognisance stirring in Fenris, his bright green eyes roving over his naked chest and discarded armour. People controlled by blood magic generally didn’t remember what transpired during the period of control, provided the spell was successful. But if it was disturbed – as it had been now – they would have a vague recollection, and the way Fenris was looking at himself and Anders, with reproach and fear, Anders suspected he was not so lucky as to have left Fenris ignorant. Despite this, Fenris remained silent while he ushered Hawke out the room under the pretence of needing privacy to focus.

“You can come by later,” he told Hawke on their way out of his clinic. “Or, better yet, Fenris will seek you out. He’ll be well momentarily.”

“Are you sure? He looked a little peakish. I mean, I know you’re the healer, but-”

“He’ll be fine, Hawke. Please, leave me to my work.”

Hawke stood at the stairs leading into the heart of Darktown and cast wanting glances at the door concealing Fenris from him. It was a great relief when he finally turned and left.

Of course, there was still Fenris to deal with, and Anders suspected he wasn’t going to enjoy Fenris’ response to what had transpired. He only hoped he managed to get through the following conversation with his jugular intact.

When he returned to the clinic, Fenris had pulled his shirt and armour back on and was in the process of sliding his gauntlets back into place. He only spared Anders a glance before returning to his task.

“Well,” began Anders uncertainly. “You seem alright. You may leave now.”

“You’re a monster.”

Anders balked. “What?”

“You’re a monster,” said Fenris again. “Not just an abomination. A monster. A beast.” His voice tremored and his hands shook as he adjusted his gauntlets. “With mages like you, everything you touch turns to ash.”

Anders was quiet for a long moment. He could see Fenris had no intention of attacking him, but he couldn’t decipher why. It couldn’t be fear. That hadn’t stopped him from seeking Danarius' death, so why?

“I expected you to attack me,” he said.

“I should,” said Fenris. He stood and strode past Anders with his back straight, though Anders caught the way his shoulders stiffened as their forearms brushed. “But Hawke needs you,” he finished. 

“Have I turned you to ash, Fenris?”

It had crossed his mind that he wouldn't mind Danarius ridding him of Fenris, but to be directly responsible for Fenris’ ruination – that was quite something else. Part of him knew it was what Fenris deserved for hindering the mage revolution, for polluting Hawke’s mind with templar ideals, but that didn’t stop him from hesitating and doubting. When someone called you a monster, even someone as complicit in mage suffering as Fenris, it was hard not to doubt.

“You won’t be able to bring me down to your level, mage,” said Fenris with surprising calm. “Not with Hawke at my side.”

A swell of anger set his eyes alight. He smothered it with haste, turning to hide his burning jealousy from sight.

“A mistake he'll come to regret in time.”

“You’re pathetic,” said Fenris scathingly.

As he turned to address Fenris one last time, he caught the sight of himself in a broken mirror lying next to the entrance. He saw blue crawling in on his irises, seeping from his fingertips, staining his skin, and he saw lines on his forehead, on either side of his mouth, under his eyes, and he saw bruises and blood and a tent in his trousers, and he realised he looked like exactly what Fenris had accused him of being: a monster.


End file.
